


The Lyre

by redKardinal



Category: Brave (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redKardinal/pseuds/redKardinal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To go along with this: http://redkardinal.tumblr.com/post/54072472361/while-watching-brave-i-spotted-this-lyre-in-the I wrote something to say why the witch has that Lyre.</p>
<p>I lay no claim to any characters.</p>
<p>Lord Macintosh rode through the forest. Everything was eerily quiet in the late evening. The creatures were silent, perhaps mocking his torment. Just hours ago, the lord had been blessed with the birth of a son, his first born, his heir. He had not been present for the birth of the child, but immediately went to his wife when he heard the news that she’d delivered. He’d thought this would be a joyous occasion. He had never been more wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lyre

Lord Macintosh rode through the forest. Everything was eerily quiet in the late evening. The creatures were silent, perhaps mocking his torment. Just hours ago, the lord had been blessed with the birth of a son, his first born, his heir. He had not been present for the birth of the child, but immediately went to his wife when he heard the news that she’d delivered. He’d thought this would be a joyous occasion. He had never been more wrong.

His wife came down with a terrible fever during her labor, which even after the delivery, she didn’t seem to be recovering. He’d held her hand, told her to stay strong, that she would get through this, that she had to watch their son grow strong. She’d said she was trying, but he felt in his heart that this sickness would only grow worse. 

The midwife then came to him. Distraught over his wife’s illness, he’d neglected to meet his newborn son. However, the midwife looked sullen, and had trouble meeting the lord’s eyes. She told him the boy was very weak. He hadn’t made a sound, and hadn’t taken a breast. He was breathing though, but it was unlikely he would last through the night.

Lord Macintosh went to his newborn son, a tiny thing, weak just as described. But even so, he was a beautiful child. It was unfair that he wouldn’t grow to know his clan, to learn to fight, or to live like he should. Heartbroken, he kissed his son’s forehead and picked up the lyre. If nothing else, he would play for his son.

He plucked at the strings, playing a song he knew by heart. A tune his father played for him as he grew strong. His hands shook, but he continued to play for the boy, wishing somehow the tune could heal his son. When he finished the tune, he stood in silence, listening to the weak breaths of the child and the still labored breathing of his wife. 

No. He could not let this happen. “I’ll return” he said to his wife. He told his servants to tend to anything she needed, and to not let her or the boy die. It was a meaningless order, he knew. What could they do to keep his family alive? But he felt that somehow that order would buy him enough time to find a way to save them both.

He left the clan on horseback, bringing the lyre with him without thinking. After a long ride, he came to the middle of the forest. It was still a long way to Dun Broch, the only place he could think of that might be able to help. He pressed forward, his horse tiring, the forest silent other than the horse’s breaths.

He’d rode for miles. The horse wouldn’t run anymore, and trudged forward, despite Macintosh’s urges to gallop. He gave up and dismounted, walking beside the horse. He felt like he was being guided some place. In the back of his mind, he knew he wasn’t heading towards Dun Broch, but his heart told him he was going the right way.

He found his way to a large ring of stones. His horse began to protest his advance, but he moved forward, standing in the center of the ring. He suddenly had no idea where to go. The unseen force that brought him here was suddenly gone. He took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulder and sighed “Now what?”

He was startled by what sounded like a child sighing. He turned toward the sound to see the blue glow of a will-o’-the-wisp. He hadn’t believed they existed, but he knew of their legend. He began to follow them, believing they would lead him to a miracle for his family. The lyre tucked under his arm, he hiked the long trail, each wisp vanishing with a tiny gasp as he grew nearer. Their numbers dwindled until he came to the last one, beckoning him forward, then vanishing. 

He glanced ahead, to see a tiny cottage built inside a grassy hill. Why had the wisps led him here? He took a breath before entering the cottage. Inside was a shriveled, hairy old woman, standing over a large cauldron, stirring the contents. She wasn’t startled in the slightest by Macintosh barging in. She simply looked up at him and greeted him. “Oh, Welcome, lad. Are ye lost?”

Macintosh looked around, taking in everything from the odd herbs lying around to the crow that perched on the edge of the cauldron. “What is this place?” he asked “Who are you?”

The woman chuckled, and tossed an herb into the pot. “This is just my home lad. Is there a reason you’re here?”

Still confounded by what he was seeing, Lord Macintosh responded slowly “Aye, I followed the wisps here.”

The woman seemed stunned for an instant, but continued with her brew. “That’s usually the answer I get.” She huffed.

“Yer a witch, aren’t ye?” Macintosh finally said.

“No, lad I just have this large cauldron to make soup for all the surrounding clans.” She laughed. But Macintosh knew who she was now. If anyone could produce a miracle to save his wife and son, surely a witch could.

“I need yer help.” He sighed. The witch raised an eyebrow at him. He looked her in the eye, grief written all over his face “My wife just a few hours ago gave birth to my son.” He explained.

“Oh, how marvelous for you.” The witch grinned “Do ye want me to make a crib for the boy? I’m rather handy as a wood carver.”

“No,” Macintosh continued. “They’re both dying. My wife has fever, and my son is very weak. Can ye make a spell to save them?”

The witch tapped her chin, eying Macintosh carefully. She could see the anguish in his heart, and how desperate he was to save the ones he loved. “I could.” She said “For a price.”

Macintosh paused for a moment. This was his only chance to save them, and he had to pay. He hadn’t any money on him, but he had to get the spell somehow. He swallowed and held up the lyre. “This is all I have. This lyre is the relic of my clan.”

The witch grinned. “Done!” she said, taking the lyre from him. She set it aside and immediately began brewing. She took herbs from everywhere, the crow dropping things in the cauldron as well, including a strand of the lord’s hair. In a flash of light, the spell was done, and the witch pulled a vial from the shelf and filled it with the spell, which took on the appearance of milk. She handed him the vial “Give half to yer wife, and half to yer son. But ye better hurry back now.” She cackled “ye don’t want to be too late now.”

Macintosh thanked her and ran out the door, and suddenly found himself at the ring of stones again, the witch’s cottage gone. His horse stood nearby, waiting for him. He mounted and rode fast and hard for his clan. The sun was rising when he arrived back. He jumped from his horse before it stopped and ran to where he’d left his wife, hoping he’d somehow made it in time.

She lay in the bed, looking far worse off than when he’d left. But she was alive. He went to her side and held her in his arm. “Drink this,” he urged, holding the vial to her lips. “It’ll make you well.” With effort, he managed to get her to drink half the milk, then laid her back down and went to his son.

The nurse who stood by him had tears in her eyes. “He stopped breathing moments ago…” she said.

Lord Macintosh choked back a gasp. He was too late. He’d tried so hard to save him, but wasn’t quick enough. He clutched the half empty vial in his hand, trying not to shake. “Give him to me.” He said. “Let me hold my son.”

With slight hesitation, the nurse handed the dead boy to his father. He held the baby close and whispered apologies to him, saying he tried his best. The boy was still warm. He looked at the vial in his hand, then at the boy. “I traded my father’s lyre fer this. Fer you my boy.” He put the vial to the baby’s lips and poured the milk down his throat. He threw the empty vial down and carried the baby back to his wife. He sat beside her, cradling the boy to his chest, fighting back tears.

His wife sat up in her bed. “What was that ye gave me?” she asked. She sounded as strong as ever.

Lord Macintosh gave a weak smile. “Just milk, dear.” He said. “Ye feelin better?”

“Aye.” She smiled. “Much.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. 

Macintosh then felt something cling to the sling of his kilt. He looked at the baby in his arms. His fingers clutched to his kilt, his blue eyes wide open. Upon seeing his father for the first time, the baby made a face and started crying. Tears rolled down Lord Macintosh’s face as he laughed. “Not even a day old, an’ the boy already hates me.”

“Oh shush” Lady Macintosh said, taking the baby. “There’s my strong wee lad.” The baby kept crying until Lady Macintosh called for the wet nurse. As the boy was taken away to be fed, Lady Macintosh turned to her husband. “How did ye do it?” she asked. “You saved us both.”

Lord Macintosh smiled “Was a miracle, I suppose.”


End file.
